


Making (Re-)Connections

by Jedi Buttercup (jedibuttercup)



Series: Polaris Wyndam-Pryce [4]
Category: Angel: the Series, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Family, Gen, Gift Fic, Quidditch, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-14
Updated: 2010-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:03:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedibuttercup/pseuds/Jedi%20Buttercup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wesley was not sure what he would become here, the new person emerging from the shed skin of the life he'd left behind in Los Angeles-- but he was beginning to look forward to the discovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making (Re-)Connections

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Beatrice_Otter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beatrice_Otter/gifts).



> > WESLEY: There is no perfect day for me, Illyria.  
> -Angel 5.22, "Not Fade Away"

The broom bucked a little under Wesley's weight as he kicked cautiously off the grass, stomach swooping as he rose slowly into the brilliant afternoon sky. Childish laughter followed his cautious ascent; he wobbled again, overcorrecting his balance, then levelled out and waved down at Teddy Lupin and his current playmate, the eldest Weasley granddaughter.

"All right, then?" a serious voice asked from above and to the left of him.

Wesley winced a little in embarrassment, then adjusted his grip and carved a smooth if hesitant arc up through the warm air rising from the back lawn of the Burrow. The Nimbus he'd borrowed was much more responsive than the Cleansweep he'd owned through his fifth year at Hogwarts; it was a good thing he'd asked for a bit of practice time before the match, though he expected he would adjust swiftly enough. It was much like riding a horse, or a bicycle; flying was not a skill one easily forgot.

"I think I'll manage," he replied, glancing over at the cousin who'd loaned him his spare. Ronald Weasley was a tall, densely muscled young man with a solid seat in the air; Wesley knew he didn't play Quidditch professionally like his sister did, but he wouldn't be surprised to learn the man had been on a house team during his school years. Ron certainly had the build to have been a Keeper or Beater, unlike Wesley, who'd always been one of the slighter members of his team even after he'd come into his height.

"Don't let him fool you, Ron!" one of the others called up: Bill, eldest of Ron's brothers, who'd been four years behind Wesley at Hogwarts. "He was lead Ravenclaw Chaser two years running!"

"Yes, well, it's been nearly twenty years since I've been on a broom!" Wesley called back to him.

It had been a shock to shake hands with the scarred, ponytailed man with the dragon claw earring and recognize in him the studious little Gryffindor third-year who'd followed the Head Boy around back in '84; he had changed a great deal during the years Wesley had been a Watcher. Of course, so had Wesley; Bill's eyebrows had gone up at the sword calluses in Wesley's grip, and they'd nodded to one another in mutually respectful assessment. There were few enough left from Wesley's time at Hogwarts with whom he could presume to be on friendly terms, fewer still who'd led lives remotely comparable to Wesley's, and he looked forward to talking shop with the curse breaker after supper.

"Not that it matters; old Quidditch experience is nothing out of the norm in this family," another voice added as Charlie Weasley swooped up to join the pair circling above the makeshift pitch. "Even Percy played a year, before McGonagall gave him a badge and delusions of authority. _Right, Perce?_" He leaned over to yell down at their third brother, then threw a wide grin at Wesley, a fresh shiny patch of burn obscuring the freckles on one cheek.

The bespectacled Weasley brother looked vaguely up from his conversation with Andromeda as his name was called; seeing no one around him, he frowned, then tipped his head backward. "What are you lot on about?" he called up to them, somewhat testily.

"Never mind!" Charlie replied, waving him off cheerfully.

"I take it he won't be joining us today?" Wesley said, smiling faintly at the brotherly byplay.

"Not likely, nor's George," Ron spoke up with a shrug. "But Angelina said she would, and Bill, and Gin too, once she gets Jamie settled with Mum."

"Audrey doesn't play; she claims it's not dignified, which makes her a good match for Perce, really-- I have a feeling there'll be another wedding here sometime this autumn." Charlie rolled his eyes. "Fleur and Gabby said they'll play Chaser and Beater, though, and Dad still does a decent job as Keeper. That just leaves one spot empty on your team, and Harry will be back from the Auror's office by the time you're done stretching your broom."

"I'll be sure and tell him you're the one who volunteered him," Ron interjected cheerfully, canting his broom over within arm's length of his brother. "What's the count up to, six over four?"

Charlie dipped his own broom inside the motion to dodge the incoming elbow and snagged his taller sibling with one scarred arm, rubbing his knuckles into Ron's bright hair with the other. Ron sputtered in squirming indignation, then managed to wrench his own broom free; Charlie let him sink out of reach, both brothers laughing as Ron drifted in slow loops toward the grass below.

"_I_ was the famous Gryffindor Seeker before Harry showed up," Charlie explained after a moment, turning his attention back to Wesley. "So of course they always put us on opposite teams, whenever we have enough players to go five a side. It's all good fun, though. Ginny spends most of her time trying to distract Harry; Fleur flies rings around Bill; Gabrielle takes every opportunity to show off; and Aunt Andromeda laughs at the lot of us so much she hardly calls half the fouls...."

"I think I'm beginning to get the picture," Wesley said with a chuckle.

And quite a picture it was: a tightly woven web of family, friends, and colleagues made even stronger by the trials, deaths and betrayals they had experienced during the Voldemort Wars. The closest he'd ever come to being a part of such a group before had been during his time with Angel Investigations, and even that acceptance had proved to be conditional. Though the fault for that could partially be laid at his own door; distance and time allowed him to admit that he'd often held himself back, maintaining the art of detachment he'd mastered during his time at Hogwarts. And when he hadn't-- well. Once burnt, twice shy, and he'd never pretended to be particularly courageous.

What use making connections, after all, allowing himself to look forward to a future that could not ever be his? He'd always known his life would be a solitary one, full of solemn responsibility.

It hadn't helped, either, that the age-peers he had hoped to look up to among his Wizarding relatives had been too high in the instep to acknowledge their Squib's-son cousin any more than necessary. Barty Crouch Junior. Regulus Black. Even Regulus' older brother Sirius, who'd been a larger-than-life seventh year when Wesley had passed under the Sorting Hat, had rather distantly disapproved of their poor, Mugglish Ravenclaw relation. He'd been rather relieved, actually, not to have been sorted into either of the Black brothers' houses, once he'd discovered the continual state of warfare between them; and he certainly hadn't had much contact with the elder cousins who'd already graduated by the time his father had permitted him to enter his mother's world.

It had him taken twenty years, and the embrace of the _other_ outcasts of that family, to finally begin to shake off that old resentment. They knew what he was capable of, these fierce-loving, hot-tempered, talented people: and far from rejecting him, they had only bound him closer to them. Wesley was not sure what he would become here, the new person emerging from the shed skin of the life he'd left behind in Los Angeles-- but he was beginning to look forward to the discovery.

Charlie grinned at him, then dipped his broom handle to follow Ron down to the lawn. "I'll get the Quaffle, then, if you want to try a few practice throws?" he called up to him.

"An excellent plan," Wesley replied.

Where would he be five years from now, when Teddy had no further use for a tutor? He had no idea-- but he somehow doubted this family would let him go, even then. He dwelt on that for a moment, a cautious thread of hope warming him as thoroughly as the spring sunshine, then leaned into his broom, taking wide spirals around the awkward, cheerful architecture of the Burrow to test the responsiveness of the steering and cushioning charms.

Yes, he could do this, he thought; a wizard was never too old to learn new tricks.

The first toss of the Quaffle came almost as a surprise, as he revelled in the feel of the wind whipping around him and adjusted his grip to further streamline his profile. He pulled back on the handle in a sudden stop, reaching an arm out by reflex-- and snagged it, using its momentum to pivot mid-air and turn him toward the homemade hoops at the other end of the yard. It was the work of a moment to judge airspeed and trajectory, then release the Quaffle toward the metal circle; it was nothing, and everything, like trying to shoot a fleeing demon through a narrow gap of its natural armour while chasing it on his motorcycle, and he was thrilled to see that his aim was as accurate as ever.

Charlie flew around the backside of the hoops to catch it, then called Ron back up, gape-mouthed, from an animated conversation with his wife. "Practice, my Aunt Muriel's arse," he laughed, eyebrows raised. "Let's try that again."

Ron mounted his broom and drifted up into Keeper position; Wesley let his thoughts dim, shifting into the battle-focus he'd earned in his previous career and letting his instincts take over. The next Quaffle came at him low, and he dove swiftly, caught it in the crook of one elbow, and feinted a run on the goals before looping up and backward and firing in a shot from a hopefully-unexpected angle.

Ron caught that one, just barely, on the bristles of his broom, and Bill grabbed a broom as well to give him a bit more of a challenge. The next few went five to three; Ron caught any shot even remotely possible for his vast reach to intercept, and Bill and Charlie together required a bit of complex flying to outmaneuver, but Wesley did manage to find a few vectors that allowed him to sneak the Quaffle through a goal.

"Blimey!" Ron exclaimed, as the eighth shot zipped over his head close enough to ruffle his hair and clanged off the rim of the hoop. "I think that's enough practice. Not bad for an old man. Why'd you only play for two years? You've got _deadly_ aim."

Wesley laughed, feeling freer than he had in months; perhaps in years. "Flitwick gave me a badge and delusions of authority," he said. "Sorry to disappoint."

Voices rose then from the yard below them; Harry Potter had finally arrived, though he looked somewhat perturbed, arguing with the frowning family matriarch. After a long moment, Molly sighed, then looked up and applied a Sonorous Charm.

"Attention! Attention everyone. Let's have a break before the game, shall we? The cake is ready-- and Wesley, dear, you're wanted at the Ministry."

Wesley frowned. Perhaps his inquiry into the official DMLE records of the battle in Los Angeles had finally come through? He'd been curious, since his first conversation with Harry, just what the American Ministry did and did not know regarding the supernatural situation in the city. Or, what they were willing to admit; Wolfram and Hart had had their fingers deep in far too many pies.

"I thought he was just there to finish up some paperwork," Ron grumbled, as the four players landed and leaned their brooms against the house. "This isn't going to take him long, is it?" he called more loudly, as they approached his brother-in-law. "It's going to be a cracking good game, if we actually get to play it."

"Sorry, Ron," Harry shrugged. "A Class One International Portkey arrived while I was leaving. Someone in the States sent over a priority detainee-- one that says she knows Wesley."

"A detainee?" Wesley's brow furrowed. Surely the Senior Partners would have kept Lilah, or Eve, or any of the firm's other assets out of confinement, and he'd have thought anyone else that might know him would be rather on the _other_ side of the law. Had one of the Slayers-- Faith, perhaps-- unwittingly trampled local wizarding authority in the course of pursuing a demon?

"Yeah," Harry said-- and in his sharp green eyes was an unexpected degree of wary caution. "Calls herself Illyria. She's not a witch, but she's not Muggle, either; they're not sure _what_ she is."

_Illyria_. Wesley's breath caught, and his stomach swooped as it had done when he'd lofted into the air less than an hour before. He wasn't sure what he was feeling-- dismay? Relief? Panic? Elation?

"I'm surprised they were able to hold her," he said, numbly. "I thought she was dead; likely she thought I was as well, or she'd have come for me long since."

"They're not so much holding her, as requesting she wait calmly while we find you," Harry admitted. "Apparently, an Auror asking questions came across her, and mentioned your name. Her reaction was-- a bit extreme." He chose his next few words with obvious care. "She's dangerous, isn't she?"

Wesley parsed the question easily; and judged his response just as carefully. "As much I am," he said, wryly. "At least, as long as she's in my vicinity."

"Ah." Harry nodded, acknowledging the answer with a nod of understanding. "Well. She's not officially a prisoner, so there'll be paperwork to take care of, but we ought to still make it back in time for a good game. I'm sure Andromeda will want to meet her."

Wesley swallowed, astounded all over again by the acceptance of this family. "Thank you," he said.

_Illyria_.

No joy, in his experience, had ever come unmixed with gall. His new life had lacked only this to truly make it complete.


End file.
